


Afraid to Fall

by Foxtrots



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied Mystrade, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-07-24 20:56:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7522840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxtrots/pseuds/Foxtrots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Asking John to marry him is proving more difficult than Sherlock could have imagined. And when a case goes wrong, he may never be able to even ask John.<br/>Rating subject to change as the fic progresses</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“And why exactly did you come here?” Mycroft lazily looked over the case files, tossing them to the side with disinterest. 

“I needed help with the case.” Sherlock sat opposite his brother, sitting up straight, shoulders rolled back. 

Mycroft smiled. This case was an easy one. Even Sherlock could figure it out on his own. No, he didn't come here for help with a case, he came for another reason. “Isn't it obvious? It was a secret twin.”  
Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. Of course. Thank you.” The consulting detective stood to collect the tossed papers that were now scattered on the floor. Sherlock moved absently as he awkwardly stacked the papers on the nearby desk, not even bothering to check if they were in order. “Thank you,” he said again, this time with a nod as he went for the door, the papers forgotten.  
“Sherlock.” 

Sherlock's shaking hand hovered over the doorknob. “What?” 

“Why are you here?” 

“I needed help with the case.” 

“Why are you here?” 

Sherlock crossed the room back to the chair and took his seat again. This time he brought his knees to his chest. The detective suddenly looked a number of years younger as he rested his chin on his knees, staring at the floor as he thought. Sherlock remained quiet, and Mycroft remained patient, waiting for his brother to reveal what was on his mind. Of course, Mycroft had already figured it out – he figured it out when Sherlock first came in. It was all obvious: sweaty palms, constantly shuffling the case file papers he held, tapping the arm of the chair with his fingers. But he still wanted to hear it from Sherlock; Mycroft never got tired of knowing he was right. 

“I want John to marry me.” 

Mycroft nodded, not bothering to hide his smug smile. Right again. “And have you asked him?” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

Sherlock glared at Mycroft from his spot on the chair. Mycroft knew the answer, he obviously knew the answer and he still wanted to tease it out of his brother. The clock on the wall tick-tocked away, but Sherlock didn't pay attention to how many seconds had gone by. They sat in silence, Sherlock too proud to speak, and Mycroft enjoying the sight of his brother squirming like that. Finally Sherlock grew impatient and broke his silence: 

“What if he says no?” 

Mycroft scoffed. It was even more amusing to hear. “John won't say no.” 

“How do you know?” 

“It's obvious.” 

Sherlock's glare intensified. 

“Because he wasn't put off by your line of work,” Mycroft began. “Because he actually likes following you around on cases. Because he likes the danger you put him in. Because John can't stand to live a boring life.” That was reason enough, but Mycroft felt it necessary to continue. “When you faked your death he forgave you. He came back to you.” Still, there was more evidence that needed to be presented. “Have you never seen the way he looks at you? He never even looked at Mary that way. All he wanted was you. All he's ever wanted was you.” 

What Mycroft said was the truth, but that didn't erase the butterflies that were fluttering in Sherlock's stomach. “How should I ask him?” 

“A formal dinner will do. Somewhere nice. I can help with the reservations. Then, when the timing is just right, go down on one knee and ask him.” 

Sherlock nodded. Just the way they did it in the movies. “And he will say yes?” 

Mycroft smiled. “Of course.” 

 

______________________________________

 

“What's the occasion?” 

“Just wanted a night out. Just the two of us.” 

Sweaty palms. Beneath the table Sherlock was bouncing his knee with impatience. As each second past, Sherlock was positive his heartbeat went a bit faster. At this rate it'd just explode in his chest and he'd flop over dead on the table. 

“Something on your mind?” John placed his hand on the table, inviting Sherlock to hold it. They never went out for dinner at restaurants as fancy as this. Something was up and John already had his suspicions. Sherlock had been acting nervous, fidgeting in his seat, stuttering when he spoke. But John had never expected Sherlock to be the type who wanted to get married. It seemed too traditional and conventional for Sherlock's tastes. Though John couldn't figure out why else this dinner would be for. 

“I uh..” he trailed off, fidgeting with the tablecloth. “John. John Watson. John Hamish Watson--” 

“What is it?” 

“I love you. Very much. Very, very much. So much so that I'd want to.. if you wanted to.. I'd like to--” Sherlock cut himself off and took in a deep breath. “Will you--” 

John was leaning forward in his chair, eyes sparkling in the candlelight as Sherlock spoke. Already he had his answer: Yes, yes you idiot of course I'll marry you. But the question never came. Instead Sherlock's phone with off. Disappointed, John leaned back in his chair. 

The distraction was a welcome one to Sherlock. Asking John was turning in a disaster and he needed to collect his thoughts. The text in question was from Lestrade. A new case in fact. Sherlock was about to pocket his phone and ignore the text but John spoke up. 

“Come on,” he said, already standing and collecting his coat. 

“Are you sure?” 

John smiled. “There's nothing I like better than cases with you.” John leaned over to kiss him. “So in short: yes.”


	2. Chapter 2

The man ran down the rainy street, hand in his jacket pocket. By now his breathing was heavy and he needed a moment to rest, but he couldn't afford such a luxury. So he kept running down the narrow street of the small neighbourhood. Dogs barked in their yards as he ran by, giving off his position. “Quiet!” he hissed, but that did nothing to stop the barking. 

Lights in the nearby houses were being turned on as the commotion continued outside. Police sirens wailed in the distance. Still the man ran as fast as he could, stepping in cold puddles that dampened his shoes. The neighbourhood was a grid so he could find his way out. Just run straight down this street and he'd out. And beyond the neighbourhood was a small park. In the dark it'd be easy enough to find a hiding spot in a tree and the cops would give up the chase. 

It would be too obvious if he just ran for the park, so he took a sudden right turn to confuse the two men chasing him. A few more unexpected turns and his pursuers would be lost and confused. But his heart sank when he realised this turn had taken him to a dead end. A fence was blocking his way and he had to be fast if he wanted to climb it. The chains were old and rusted and noisily clattered as he tried to climb over it. Then his foot got stuck. Then his jacket got caught. The man struggled like a fly caught in a spider web. With his free hand, he felt over his jacket pocket – is it still there? Did it fall out? Ah! Still here! 

“Dead end.” 

The man looked over his shoulder to see his pursuers had caught up to him. In the cold air their breath could be seen in the glow of a streetlight. The taller man took a few tentative steps forward, holding his hand out. 

“There's no where to go, Max,” Sherlock said as the man fought to get his foot and jacket free from the fence. Finally he managed to pull his foot from the fence, but he lost his balance. The jacket ripped from where it had been caught, causing him to fall over. But the man quickly got back on his feet and shoved his hand into his jacket pocket. Still there. It's still there. 

Red and blue lit up the street as the police cars neared. A few people in pyjamas and housecoats had left their houses to see what the noise was about. It was obvious this tiny neighbourhood never saw much action and a few of the spectators pulled their phones out to catch some of the action. 

A police car dramatically squealed to a stop and a young officer bounded out. “Hands on your head!” he ordered to the suspect as he walked past Sherlock and John. “You're under arrest--” 

Sherlock frowned as his thunder was taken from him. It was his case, his find. If it weren't for his help the suspect would be on his way to France and no one would be the wiser. “Under arrest for the murder of Angela Simpson,” he butted in, never passing an opportunity to show off. “She didn't know of her inheritance of that priceless diamond – the one in your pocket – when her great aunt died, but you did. You had seen the will and knew all about it and kept it for yourself. Angela was oblivious to it all and wasn't a threat, but you still didn't feel safe. So you killed her to make sure she'd never find out. And tried to make her murder look like an accident when slipping arsenic in her wine is the oldest trick in the book. Really, I had hoped you would have come up with something more creative.” Sherlock held out his hand. “The diamond, please.” 

The man didn't pull a diamond from his pocket. Instead he revealed the pistol he had been hiding and pointed it directly at the officer. The officer mirrored the movement, pulling his own gun out. Sherlock took a step back, now deciding this was a matter for the police. 

“Put the gun down now!” From the cars behind them more officers stood, their guns trained on the suspect. 

The man stared at the officer in front of him, his heart beating fast. Any sudden movement and they'd be on him in a moment. The man jumped when an unexpected raindrop fell on him. It was followed by others and soon enough there was a downpour. The man blinked raindrops from his eyes, his breathing growing more laboured. 

And then a gunshot echoed through the street. 

 

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

 

Sherlock sat on a plastic chair in the hospital's waiting room. A wall clock obnoxiously ticked away and the water cooler hummed as it tried to get the water to a lukewarm temperature.   
John's expression had seared itself into Sherlock's memory. The look of confusion, wide eyes, mouth open. And then John's eyes locked onto Sherlock. A pleading look took over. One that was sorry and scared. John's lips moved as he tried to speak, but no sound came out. 

Every time a nurse went by his heart skipped a beat, both hoping and dreading he would hear news about John. But they passed by him, all ignoring him, acting as if he wasn't even there.   
John fell to his knees, then fell forward, collapsing on the damp ground. Sherlock struggled to make his legs move, to rush to John's side. Only a few metres stood between them, but it felt like it took hours to reach him. 

“John. John, can you hear me?” Sherlock turned John over to his back, patting his face. “John?” 

“Sherl..” John stared blankly ahead of him. 

The last thing John had said was his name. Or at least tried to. After that he fell unconscious, looking nearly peaceful. “John,” he had whispered, wrapping his arms around him, hardly caring he was getting blood on his clothes. A sob shook his entire body as his fingers dug into John's jacket. The paramedics nearly had to pry Sherlock off of him. During the ambulance ride Sherlock refused to leave John's side and he had to be physically held back when John was taken to surgery. 

“Mr Holmes?” 

Sherlock stared at the doctor standing before him. She was in baggy scrubs and her mask was sitting at her chin. Her hair was still netted back. 

“Mr Holmes, he's out of surgery,” she explained. “It doesn't look too bad, all things considered and I'm confident he'll make a full recovery. For now he just needs rest and time to heal.” 

Sherlock nodded though he wasn't listening. Her words slurred into one sound in his mind. 

“Would you like to visit him?” 

Sherlock stared at the floor in front of him, finding it impossible to focus. The world around him became blurry and started to slowly spin. For a moment he felt nauseous and was certain he would be sick, but his stomach soon settled. Sherlock's own pulse rang in his ears, a fast but steady rhythm. 

“Mr Holmes?” 

Suddenly she came into focus. “Yes.”


	3. Chapter 3

“How's he doing?” Lestrade let himself into John's room and took a seat on the worn padded chair. Sherlock sat in the other, his eyes focused on John. The room was kept dark so John could rest easier. The only source of light was from the streetlight that crept in through the window. “Heard they got the bleeding under control. Bullet's out nice and clean. Give him a few weeks of rest and he'll be good as new.” 

Sherlock stayed quiet. 

“There wasn't anything you could have done,” Lestrade went on. “He had a gun. Even if you knew that before, you couldn't have jumped in front of John and taken the bullet like the movies. Happens way too fast for that.” Lestrade conveniently left out the fact that Sherlock and John shouldn't have been chasing the suspect alone. At times Sherlock seemed more like a liability than help. “So what I'm trying to say is you don't have to blame yourself.” 

“I don't blame myself,” Sherlock snapped. 

Lestrade nodded. “Good. That's good, then.” Sherlock went quiet again. “So are you gonna spend the night here or d'ya want a ride home?” 

“I was going to ask him to marry me.” 

Not the response Lestrade had expected. Again, he nodded. “What did he say?” 

“I don't know. I haven't asked him yet.” There was an edge to Sherlock's voice but Lestrade ignored it; Sherlock had plenty reason to be upset right now. Then his voice softened: “Do you think he would have said yes?” 

Lestrade tried to hide his smile. “'Course. In fact I'm a bit surprised he never asked you first.” 

“John thinks I don't like weddings.” 

“And do you?” 

“No.” All that time and money going into just one day didn't make sense to him. There was too much expectation for the day to go perfectly when in reality that wasn't possible. And then what happens after the wedding? Nothing. It's as if nothing had happened so why spend all that time and money for one day? “They're pointless.” But for whatever reason he wanted to marry John. Sherlock actually wanted to have a ceremony and exchange rings and vows and kiss and dance and eat cake and get hopelessly drunk. 

“So why get married in the first place if it's so pointless?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “Just do.” Because he wanted to tell the world he loved John. And he wanted – no he needed – John to know he loved him. Genuinely loved him. Days blurred into weeks and months and Sherlock was all too aware he took John for granted most times. John deserved a proper wedding, a grand gesture of love. 

“So are you gonna ask him when he wakes up?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “I'll wait until the anaesthesia wares off.” 

“Good plan.” Lestrade crossed one leg over the other. “So when's the wedding going to be? Spring weddings are always nice. I got married in the spring, right when the flowers were blooming. But I think you'd get married in the colder months like November. It'd be an indoor wedding, of course.” 

Lestrade's pointless rambling helped calm Sherlock, though he'd never admit that. Just to have someone to fill the silence and breathe some life into this dark, quiet room. But the rambling stopped as soon as the door opened. 

“I was just leaving,” he abruptly said, standing. In the doorway stood Mycroft. When he was ready to leave, Mycroft took a step to the side, giving him clear access to the door. 

“Detective Inspector,” he elder Holmes said as he passed. 

“Yeah,” was Lestrade's response. 

Mycroft gently closed the door and took Lestrade's seat. 

“Really?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow, a smile forming on his lips. Now it was his turn to relentlessly tease his brother. It was a nice distraction from what was happening around him anyway. 

“What?” 

“Lestrade?” 

“I don't know what you mean.” 

“Was it just one time or are you seeing each other?” 

Mycroft ignored the question, his eyes on John. “What possessed you to take a case the night you planned to propose to him? I take it you didn't propose to him. Waited until the last minute and now there's no longer a last minute to wait for.” 

“I'll ask him when he wakes up.” 

“That's not the point,” Mycroft huffed. “You're frankly quite lucky to have a second chance to ask him. What if the bullet had killed him?” 

“It didn't.” 

“But what if it did?” It was unlike Mycroft to think about what ifs. It was a waste of time to wonder what could have happened instead of focusing on the now. The facts were that John did get shot, but it wasn't fatal and he'd recover. Still, he couldn't help but worry about all those what ifs. Worrying, like questioning possibilities was also unlike him, but when matters came down to his little brother, he couldn't help but worry. If John had died, it would have destroyed Sherlock and Mycroft would be the one who had to clean up the mess. 

“It. Didn't.” Sherlock had of course wondered what he'd do if he had lost John. There weren't many regrets he had when it came to his lover. Perhaps he could have kissed John sooner rather than wait for his divorce to finalise. Maybe they should have waited to have sex (it was a bit of a disaster). But the point was that he did kiss John and they did have an awkward first sexual encounter and in the end he regretted none of that. The one regret he would have had, was not asking John to marry him sooner. 

Mycroft stood, straightening his waistcoat. All his life he felt a need to protect his younger brother, but he always seemed to fail. Whether it be school bullies, his addictions, his dangerous work, falling in love or even heartbreak, Mycroft couldn't protect him no matter how hard he tried. “Let me know when you start planning the wedding.” 

Sherlock stared at John as Mycroft left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn't help squeezing a bit of implied mystrade in there.


	4. Chapter 4

John didn't feel any pain when the bullet hit him. There was an uncomfortable pressure in his chest, but no pain. Still, he knew what had happened: the gun was still pointed in his direction and Sherlock's startled expression said it all. 

John could feel each raindrop as it fell on him and trickled down his body, like a river flowing down a mountain. Each drop was cold against his heating skin and helped him focus on what just happened. What just happened? 

Without warning the pain came. John fell to his knees, then to the ground, settling himself in a forming puddle. The army of officers charged at the suspect, but they ignored John, left him lying on the pavement. 

That's when Sherlock came. John could feel Sherlock's arms around him, holding him close, trying to keep him warm. “John. John, can you hear me?” Sherlock sounded like he was speaking under water. 

John pressed his face against Sherlock's coat, taking in that familiar scent of cigarettes, rain, and the musty smell of the flat. It offered him comfort, but it didn't make the pain go away. 

What just happened? 

What just happened? 

“Sherl..” John muttered, his vision fading. 

* * * *

A woman patted his face. “Come on John, stay awake with me,” she said. “We're gonna get you looked after, don't you worry.” 

Sherlock stood behind her. 

 

* * * *

John saw a tiled ceiling with florescent lights. Around him he smelled disinfectant. Beneath him was a hard mattress and on him was a scratchy blanket. When the lights became too bright he closed his eyes and listening to what was happening around him. 

“Sir, you can't go with him.” 

“I need to!” 

“We'll let you know his condition as soon as we can. Please, just wait here and we'll--” 

“I need to be with him!” 

“Sir, I need you to calm down. I understand you're upset but – ack! Laura, call security.” 

* * * * 

 

John tried to move, but it felt like his blanket was made of lead. Even moving his fingers took effort and keeping his eyes opened started to feel impossible. So he closed his eyes, just for a second. 

When he opened his eyes again, morning light was trailing in through the window. Rain pit-pattered against the glass. It still felt like he was being held down by an impossibly heavy blanket. 

As he became more alert, he started to take more of the room in: small with two worn chairs at the foot of his bed. The bed was hard and his blankets were scratchy. And in his left hand was an IV line. When John tried to follow the line his eyes stung when he began to look up. So he squeezed his eyes shut, then decided to look at different things. To his other side was a tray holding a plastic cup filled with water. Water? Was he thirsty? No, nauseous if anything. John clenched his jaw, refusing to let himself be sick. Was he going to be sick? The thought of vomiting made his body ache. Then again, the thought of just about anything made his body ache, like he was recovering from some kind of illness and -- 

Someone came through the door. Tall. Dark hair, dark coat. Pale face. The man, the stranger nearly jumped when his eyes locked with John's and he came rushing to his side, grabbing his hand. The man had a look of concern on his face and his eyes were watery. 

“John?” 

“Sherl..” John's voice was hoarse and talking hurt his throat. 

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock leaned over to press a kiss against John's cheek. 

“Like shit,” John replied. 

Sherlock laughed. “Do you know what happened to you?” 

“Got hit by a truck?” 

Sherlock explained: the case, John getting shot, how long he had waited for John to wake up, how relieved he was to see John awake and doing well (as well as he could be, all things considered). But John had blanked out for a moment and fell back asleep. 

When he awoke again, he found Sherlock's head in his lap, eyes closed. John raised his awkward and heavy hand and placed it on his cheek. Sherlock's eyes opened and focused on John. “Hey.” John still felt like he had been hit by a truck. In fact, he was starting to feel like he'd been hit by ten trucks: his head throbbed and his chest hurt and his entire body ached. 

“I thought I was going to lose you,” Sherlock replied, pressing a kiss against John's hand. 

“I'm here now.” 

“I don't know what I'd do without you,” Sherlock said, sitting up. “I love you. I don't show it and I don't say it enough and I'm not sure how to say it. But I love you. I love you and I want to marry you. So..." Sherlock stood up from his chair and pulled a small velvet box from his pocket and crouched down on one knee. "John Watson, will you--" 

John slowly held up his index finger to quiet Sherlock. “Not now, love. Not here.” Confined to a hospital bed with his brain feeling as fuzzy as it was, he didn't exactly feel like accepting a proposal. Instead he wanted to rest. Just rest for now and get better. And then he'd say yes. 

Sherlock hid his look of disappointment and pocketed the box as he resumed his chair. When he was seated, he leaned over the bed to place a kiss on John's dry lips. John's heart rate monitor spiked.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a sucker for corny endings.

“So how'd he do it?” 

“Hm?” John looked up from his tea. The teabag bobbed at the surface and John scooped it out with his spoon. 

The coffee shop buzzed with activity. The door was constantly opening, letting in bursts of cold air. People around them were muttering to their friends or into their phones, or noisily typing into their laptops. 

Joining Greg for coffee had become a habit. Every Monday they went to the same place and ordered the same drinks: for Greg a black coffee and for John, tea with two sugars. 

“How'd he propose?” Greg pointed to the gold band that wrapped itself around John's finger. John grinned and took a moment to admire it. 

“In his own way,” John replied. 

 

\----- 

 

For weeks the proposal wasn't spoken of. Even when John was fully healed, there was no talk, no discussion of marriage. And to be honest, John felt a bit disappointed. Had Sherlock simply forgotten, or did he no longer want to marry John? Was there second thoughts? Changed his mind? As the weeks flew by, John felt more and more anxious and finally, he had to ask. 

"Did I do something wrong?" John asked one night as Sherlock climbed into bed next to him. John was partway through a novel while Sherlock was going through crime scene photos he had taken on his phone. Sherlock didn't reply and after a pause, John spoke again: "Sherlock." 

"Hmm?" 

"Did I do something wrong?" 

"No. Why?" 

John pulled the phone from Sherlock's hands, trying to gain his attention. "Because you were so intent on marrying me." The phone was placed on the bedside table. "And now I'm starting to think you don't want to anymore." 

Sherlock swallowed and stared at his lap. 

"So did I do something wrong? Are you mad with me?" 

"No." 

John frowned. "Do you not want to marry me?" John had never expected to ever get married to Sherlock and was content with just living with him. There didn't have to be titles of "boyfriend" or even "husband." But when Sherlock was so close to proposing to him, John realised that he would like to get married with a proper wedding. And since then, the thought of marriage had never left. 

Sherlock abruptly got out of bed, tugging at the elastic band of his sweat pants. When he returned, he had the velvet box in his hands. And then he went on one knee. John crawled to the edge of the bed to get a better look at him. 

"I didn't mean now," John muttered. 

"John Watson, you are the most -- what I mean is you're my closest friend. And my companion. And my partner. And lover. And--" 

"I just wanted to know if you still wanted to do this," John explained. "This can wait until tomorrow. We can have a nice dinner together and do it there." 

Over the past few weeks Sherlock had many opportunities to propose. In fact, those opportunities seemed to throw themselves at him. But he never took a single one. At this rate, he'd never propose. "I need to do this. Because, well.. I'm a bit scared. Nervous. Everyone said you'd say yes and marry me. But I need a real answer from you. I need to hear it from you.” 

“Sherlock--” 

Sherlock opened the box, revealing a golden ring. “And this isn't romantic or even thought out and..” he trailed off, his brow furrowing as he realised he should have taken John up on his offer of waiting until tomorrow. But he was already on one knee with the ring shining in its box. "So.. so John Watson, will you marry me?" The confidence Sherlock usually had about him melted away. 

John took the ring from the box and slid it onto his finger. “Yes, yes you idiot of course I'll marry you.” 

Sherlock nodded and placed the now empty box on the bedside table and got back into bed. John admired his ring. 

Later that night, when John was nearly asleep, he felt Sherlock wrap his arms around him. John smiled as he placed his hand over Sherlock's. 

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. 

John snorted. “Never been more sure in my life.”


End file.
